What's Next, Bozo?

The man who popularized Bozo the Clown, Larry Harmon, died on July the Fourth at age 83. I intended the header above to refer to self not the actual, real-life, Bozo. It's just a coincidence.

The Missus and Self celebrated the Fourth at son-in-law Jake's house nearby. Barbecued ribs and other wholesome eats, topped by fireworks in the distance to be amazed by. I don't like to be shunned for being unpatriotic, but the truth is I find Awesome firework displays a bit like watching somebody else's Elongated Orgasm -- boring, boring.

Bozo, yeah, why not speak up? Nobody's going to accuse me of being unpatriotic because I find Spectacular Fireworks boring, though they will if you're caught not wearing a red-white-blue cap or displaying the American flag out front. I'm tempted to say something about the current Presidential campaign and the silly sallies about who's the most patriotic and who's the least, but I won't.

Whassup? That's today's greetings. Whassup! Or, Whasnew? "Hanging in there", I say. I don't like to admit to anybody this but I will tell you. There are times I feel like one of the Presidential candidates or their numerous surrogates -- you've got to review your speech in your mind's eye before you utter it. Got to look out for honest-to-goodness candor that will be "taken out of context", meaning any Anglo-Saxon vulgar colloquialisms meant to convey strong human emotions or blunt, unvarnished opinion.

I'd love to watch a debate wherein the contestants spoke like -- well, real people. "That's a lot of bullshit, and you know it!" No, no, that's not measured or diplomatic. Preferred -- "I beg to differ, dear esteemed colleague, your statements are misleading and are not supported by majority opinion; moreover, blah, blah, blah."

But, back to our Fourth. Over the last few days, I had given just a little thought to what My Report might contain -- just preliminary sketching, you understand. It didn't take long before I realized I was way over my head. What am I to report to whom and what is the purpose of My Report? And who actually is going to read the Report?

While Jake was tending the barbecue grill , I was tempted to tell him about the bear at the Fitness Center who had scolded me for not turning in a report -- yeah, you know, don't you -- "Whasamatta with you, Bozo? No, actually Jake is a model son-in-law because he's smart and goes along with whatever. I did give him a brief briefing and he didn't raise even one eyeborw, but said, "how much is he going to pay you?" Reasonable, don't you think?

Friday the 4th marked 232 years since the Declaration of Independence. In those many years, how many 4th of July speeches have been given? How many remembered? What difference did they make? How many minds were changed? How many fireworks were exploded? How many casualties? What did it all cost? If I was to find a way to quantify the significance of all those speeches and fireworks, wouldn't I need to know how many? How much?

See -- what's to be in The Report? What could I possibly put in my report that would/could possibly matter to anyone, even including myself and the Missus? So, I don't have any trouble talking myself up as being a significant author of The Report. On the contrary, I'm constantly reminding myself (with a thump) that I see but an infinitesimally tiny portion of what's to know.

In my lifetime, I've been looking out a small knothole in the fence that stands between myself and what's going on Out There. I see so little of what I personally can verify. I have to depend on others to inform me and they are well known to be chronic liars or worse biased (warped) or simply paid to entertain us (divert our attention from serious, dull, boring, complicated, depressing true things).

About every month or so, Larry King has a program about UFOs with guest missionaries and certified skeptics and critics. Of course it is so much BS but who cares -- obviously people will spend money on ads for an audience who want to believe somebody Out There cares enough to come check us out. I'm prepared to believe in the reality of UFOs when (a) somebody sells tickets for a genuine UFO ride and (b) somebody comes back and sells his or her story to a magazine about riding in a UFO. Of course, by then, the vehicles can't very well be called UFOs but rather IFOs.

I'll keep looking through my peephole to see if I can notice anything of import. Meanwhile, I'll continue to try to flush out that nonsense about the bear and his dumbass game.